7.12 / Queer Three

Asking Where

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Sex

Maybe he only took his dick out and the rest of him was clothed except for my mouth a receptacle trained to put the light through. Be at the beach one day for me to find you. Place your dick in my mouth none too gently in my mouth all witness. Take off your shoes and socks we’re going on a rough sex with strangers date.

The Worm

Put pushing back on the list of terms we keep. I had a small cup of coffee this morning. I couldn’t access the Internet. In public the sky’s twenty percent off after you came in my mouth at the hot springs I felt great. The worm I decorate with found metal. It’s a city all eyes fingers skin and money.

Copley Square

I never had a we I could believe in. Movies of pigeons shitting are better or worse than the actual pigeons better or worse don’t mean different things in Copley Square the pigeons expect scraps though I do love a good farmer’s market a nice cool breeze flowers and a church under construction. A man on a banner wears sunglasses. This banner hangs down from the front of the church like a booger. The flowers in the public garden are white and orange with red leaves and cup-shaped and flying and wearing sunglasses with fluorescent orange rims and soldiers poverty and wars and aging. What are ways to endure disgrace?

Moving

Everything I have is assigned a lot number and it’s hard not to feel I’m in a bad production of Phantom of the Opera. My history wears a wet dress cold on the cold damp skin of November. The cardboard game board has dragons but the waterways haven’t been colored in.

Asking where the treasure is buried

A cat licked clean. I rouged my skin today before I ate the chocolate pudding which catches the cold back of my spoon. The ceramic bowls I made in therapy hold only fingerprints. It takes twenty minutes or the smell of dad’s cherry pipe tobacco flavor. Smoke which never smelled like cherry but I learned to read the package.

You’re smoking and doing something with your phone and because I’ve just met you I ignore you. It’s not because I’ve just met you it’s because I’m attracted and I just quit smoking myself. I feel fear feel chopped up like an ingredient for a Cobb salad.

German phrases and until last the verb it’s so humid on the east coast leaving, and how sticky the mess of melted frozen yogurt that was spilled into the child safety lock mechanism of our minivan, a blue Dodge caravan if I can trust the first day of school pictures. Dried shut, that lock never worked again no matter how much care was demonstrated. I wish I could take out all the time we spend apart on you at night until our orgasms exhaust us. Nothing can explain the luck everything reminds me of analogously of almost everything else. It was boring to add mirrors. I cut my finger open trying to spin my body around in your mouth like a plum.

The sneeze from being out in the sun is a gorgeous seed in my belly. I suppose I told him that I was open to anything and who better than me, suggesting that he kiss me. I went to bed early one night and you knocked.

I imagined your dick inside me like a popsicle, a thick goosebump, e-mails to which the only interesting answer is yes.

I drive my car with no gas and no money and buy my work clothes at the Camp Hill mall and eat a pretzel from the Auntie Anne’s I used to work at when I was a high school girl.

Now that we live together I think the red lining is what sold me. I believe in change I feel like an underfeather, the kind shed in summer grown back in fall for birds living through more than one season. I like painting the gluey primer with you how it makes sex sounds when we slop it on its thickness in the humidity in the summer in the kitchen in the brush then down my arm.

I take dried shark fin up the ass so it kicks in faster. I was stoned at Tufts when gay marriage passed in Massachusetts. Gay men can’t tell me that shame doesn’t have anything to do with us. Will you be with me in the garden of ceramic roses, honor, the sky brass talking? As we were putting up our first bookshelf in Jamaica Plain there was an earthquake. A gay German flower boy for your wedding I’m jealous!

Though I did get a teapot in the mail meant as a wedding present for someone else and meanly kept it, my teeth rattling around in there like red hard candies. You were right about the coffee shop and about maps.

My autobiography, 2012

I could never be a housewife; My bodice is metal enough to attract lightning. I chose to write in this house, because we moved into it when my father was making more money, makes me feel retroactive. My dad and I are alone in the house. This is rare. My mom is usually around but this week she’s in Albuquerque visiting my older sister and her family. My dad watches baseball but not aggressively.

I grew up here in the suburbs of Harrisburg near Three Mile Island, but now I live with Brian in Boston. Where people are around me all day like a chalk that I try to ignore is on my hands but I use my hands a lot. The closest river to me growing up was the Conodoguinet, about which I wrote a poem:

I see crayfish in it and
it smells good and bad in
the summer we go wading.

I wish I could say I wrote this poem when I was a child but I just wrote it. I like to be in my bare feet in the mess of it. Is enunciated the opposite of pale? A web the opposite of hollow?

Why I eat poetry

You have your eyes shut like a gossip magazine glued shut by a fan’s cum. Alone with travel, like wind. The summer we started dating we couldn’t find any good vegetarian food and I got shy in all these sentences so used to breaking.

The poem the movie

Slowly in like the smell of hot cotton candy on a hot day into the noses of those on the benches metaphorical with drug use. I want to be closer. Picture the face I’m wearing picture the shirt I’m taking off the one with the thin black close together stripes around the front and the circles too which clash against the stripes like the texture of plastic on plastic arrogant as a couple in love.

I don’t know anything about cruising

Rectangles and triangles of icing. Your rent in ginger and protein. A red biblical and shiny scrotum given an injury. Mine all of it because I will not feed you my dick I’ll just tease you on the neighborhood in bed. Those balls between thick panes of glass having been pressed then sucked at until lame.

Movement cleans the trees and rain leaves a heavy wig but not as fake. I did my best to see what shame could mean again this writing keeps track for free. No one is as handsome as our unsettling one another the way orgasm and chiasmus can fleece. My jealous face tattles on itself no need. I put myself out like an empty mason jar a hoped-for milk that steps in.

The city in its long blue shirt, my asshole luxuriates

When I can see better I see you choose to enjoy yourself with me at the lush of vowels. Their seat I don’t want anything as badly as an edge. Rough if I am impressionable smooth as a duck in water. Its small leisure.

Tame me like a rat in a swamp

The worm is back and still too young to be a fairy tale. The worm is back the way a romance novel always was in my mom’s hands and in the silver drawer too. A shadow sly and swollen and ripe with masturbation formally more than halfway.

I still have years of drinking behind me like a dangerous crown. The way the trees were turning around for me as I watched them out the windows of the Dodge looking to be buried in hills as if you should have seen them long ago found me and recused me from this experience of myself. Jackrabbits pump sticky ejaculations into the dandelions ballooning smoking holding.

Affording Chinese sweet buns and butterfly cakes and car insurance all at the same time washing bits of hot sauce off of the kitchen floor before a party still unformed as cooling fudge how I left New York after the semester was a thumb in a wet mouth. Beers on knees I insert myself into you at the softest part of your throat how I think a necklace would. I left New York the wind on my shoulders.

How else to kiss a bivalve. I grew up like a minnow trying to be a tadpole too many shades of green. In whose back pocket a just in case condom thumbs peeling like overturned boats talking their way slowly into pants both kinds of pants.

My nails grow quickly is getting specific though I go to the bank and press lots of buttons and though I no longer masturbate so feverishly. In Idaho we see bighorn sheep and your beard is like a kiss I feel my tits through my shirt we take cover under a stone I wouldn’t be able to imagine it now without your having done it first.

The sweet oily strawberry on a plate and fingered when I want to be picked up this bad and this many times different colors of candies but matte slipping like memory in the wheelhouse different so fast. Please going ahead with our orders.

Standing invitation

Just down the street the young
horizon’s inadvertence.


John Myers lives in Tucson. He works with adults living with severe mental illness. His poems have been published in Handsome, Spork, FRiGG, Gigantic Sequins, The Dirty Napkin, ABJECTIVE and other venues. His Internet address is http://ineffectualeffigy.tumblr.com/
7.12 / Queer Three

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